April 29, Sunday.—Woke up with a fearful headache and strong
symptoms of a cold. Carrie, with a perversity which is just like
her, said it was “painter’s colic,” and was the result
of my having spent the last few days with my nose over a paint-pot.
I told her firmly that I knew a great deal better what was the matter
with me than she did. I had got a chill, and decided to have a
bath as hot as I could bear it. Bath ready—could scarcely
bear it so hot. I persevered, and got in; very hot, but very acceptable.
I lay still for some time.
On moving my hand above the surface of the water, I experienced the
greatest fright I ever received in the whole course of my life; for
imagine my horror on discovering my hand, as I thought, full of blood.
My first thought was that I had ruptured an artery, and was bleeding
to death, and should be discovered, later on, looking like a second
Marat, as I remember seeing him in Madame Tussaud’s. My
second thought was to ring the bell, but remembered there was no bell
to ring. My third was, that there was nothing but the enamel paint,
which had dissolved with boiling water. I stepped out of the bath,
perfectly red all over, resembling the Red Indians I have seen depicted
at an East-End theatre. I determined not to say a word to Carrie,
but to tell Farmerson to come on Monday and paint the bath white.